


The Desert

by Katowisp



Series: The Gunslinger [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fighting Spirit, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, grit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katowisp/pseuds/Katowisp
Summary: An ambush, a kidnapping, a Mandalorian alone in the desert.
Series: The Gunslinger [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574611
Comments: 25
Kudos: 165





	1. The Man Alone

The Mandalorian stared up at the sky, and baked. The cooling mechanism on his armor had failed. He had run out of water twelve hours ago and there were six more until the second sun would set. If he remembered his maps right (because they had failed, too.) it was a three hour hike to the closest moisture farm.

He tried to roll over but couldn’t. 

The suns burned overhead. 

He tried again. 

With effort, he flopped over onto his stomach. He was grateful for the padding. He could feel the heat of the Beskar and of the sand radiating through the cloth. 

_Get up_ , he told himself. 

In the distance, storm clouds roiled. The Western sky was electric. 

Get up, he urged again. His shoulder was wet. Beneath him, the sand was red. 

_Get up._

He got up. 

The clouds grew, black and ominous. They were hours away. They would be here in ten minutes.

Stumbling to his feet, he tried to orient himself. His compass was useless. The shot had taken out all of his homing mechanisms. His helmet was, at this point, mostly dead weight. 

He considered taking it off, but he was fairly sure this was his last ride, and he would not be found with his helmet off. 

He thought he saw other Mandalorians grow in the clouds forming to the West. Their Beskar armor was bright in the growing lightning. They were riding towards him in their resplendent armor. 

From this distance, he could see the desperation in their faceless masks. 

The clouds grew closer. 

The Mandalorian stumbled in the direction of the wind. 

He fell.

Rain ripped around him. He held out his flask and filed it with the large drops of the spring storm

His blood mixed with the rain and the sand. He knew, at a certain point, he had to do more to staunch the flow. 

“I’m coming home,” he told the sky. 

The rain collapsed around him, turning the sand into ball bearings. 

He fell to all fours and crawled.

He thought of his mother. He could barely remember her face; kindness, wrapped in worry and fear as she closed the doors beside the stoic face of his father. A moment later, an explosion that left him with permanent hearing damage and a sustaining hatred of droids. Technology could heal one, but not the other. 

He crawled. 

His father that had taught him how to farm, how to encourage the life of fragile, tiny things that would become sustenance with proper attention and love. They had just sewed a new field, a month before the Empire and the droids had come for them. 

Later, after the Mandalorians had saved him, the walking dead from a society equally decimated by the Empire, he had walked the fields he had helped plant. They were scorched. . 

“It takes decades for soil to recover from hate,” his father had told him once. 

His father was wrong: The Mandalorian had never recovered. 

He stumbled forward. 

Every time he picked himself up, there was more red left in the weeping sand than there had been before. 

The storm passed over him, the moons were silver discs in a black sky. The earth cooled around him, and just as his armor had failed him in the heat, it failed him now in the cold. A chill slipped down his spine. 

He thought of the fear he had felt as a child alone in the bunker. 

He thought of the large, black eyes of his Kid, and willed himself forward. 

He crested another dune. Behind it was a whole sea of sand. 

He collapsed. 

In the south, the sky lightened. In three hours, the dual suns would be above him again. He had gathered as much water as he could, but he wasn’t sure it was enough. 

He walked, and he crawled, and he fell. He could not stop the bleeding and finally, it stopped him. 

The suns rose across the cold desert. 

Later, when they were almost halfway through their course, he sunk enough into consciousness to recognize the Dreadbirds that flew above him. 

He tried to climb back on his feet, but his muscles cramped, and he could not find the energy to get up. He sunk under his own weight. 

He wanted to take his helmet off, to breath the dry air of the planet, to feel the hot wind across his face. 

He did not have the energy. He would not allow himself, even if he did. 

He had never taken his helmet off, and he would not take it off now.

When they found him (if they found him, in a thousand years, mummified in the sand), they could say: he was a Mandalorian.


	2. The Drifter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Drifter finds the Mandalorian.

The Drifter found the Mandalorian face down in the desert sand. 

He had never seen a Mandlorian—could never see one—but he appreciated the feel of the armor and the wetness seeping had nothing to do with the early spring rain, and everything to do with a blaster shot that had the fortuitous nature of catching the Mandlorian in a gap in his armor. 

His mount hummed in panic, another storm forming in the west. The sky was electric. During most of the year, impossibly blue skies reigned. The Drifter had been told that they were the truest blue of the water on a sunny day and the Drifter knew what oceans were like. In his head, the sky was as bright as the coral waters of Kamino. 

Sometimes, the desert planet was said to have brewing, tumultuous skies, and the Drifter knew those, too. 

“We will take him home.”

And the Drifter and his mount loaded the dying Mandalorian and carried him back to the abandoned moisture farm that the Drifter called home. 

The Mandalorian laid unconscious for days. The Drifter had heard stories that their people did not like their faces shown to another living soul outside their clan. He considered this as he pried off the helmet and dripped water into parched lips. He did not feel the Mandalorian’s face. 

He would honor the man’s creed. 

When he thought the man had met Death, and Death had given him back, he put the helmet back on. 

Sometime later, the Mandalorian stirred. His first words were, “Where is the Child?”

“I do not know.”

The Drifter could hear the Mandalorian grunt as he pushed himself up. “Did you see my face?” There was a thread of panic in the Mandalorian’s voice.

“I did not,” the Drifter held out a cup of water. He released his hand when he felt the cup grasped. 

“Who are you?”

“I am a Drifter.” 

“I am a Mandalorian.” 

“We are well met,” the Drifter said. 

The Drifter did not have a medpack, and the Mandalorian spent the next few days gathering his strength. He could hear the stumbling steps as the Mandlorian stood and wandered around the abandoned moisture farm. 

“Do you have a name?” The Mandalorian asked on the third day. 

“Yes, do you?”

“Yes.” But the Mandalorian did not give it, and the Drifter did not offer his. 

“You are blind,” The Mandalorian said on the fourth day. 

“Yes,” the Drifter agreed. It had not always been this way. He remembered what skies had been, and what oceans had been, and what it had looked like when the two had met. When he felt the sand beneath his webbed feet, he did not imagine desert, he imagined that it was beach, rushing into sea. 

But he had sought glory, and glory had blinded him. 

“You aren’t meant to be here,” the Mandalorian said on his sixth day.

“Neither are you,” the Drifter said. 

“I’m searching for my Child.” 

“My days of searching are over, but I can help you on your path. But you cannot leave yet.” The Drifter smelled the air. 

“Why not?”

“The storms come.” 

That evening, spring storms raged over them again. The Drifter liked to think of the ocean. He missed the rhythmic sound of the waves hitting the shore. He missed feeling a part of something. When he had been in the sea, he had felt the swells of the water, and life had been part of the water, and part of him. When the storms had come, he had delved deep, and stormy waters passed over him. In the desert, the storms raged over him, and he was part of them, and he was frightened, and he could do nothing.

“My condenser has broken,” The Drifter lamented the next morning, his hands feeling dirt where water should have been. 

“I will fix it.” 

“I believe the rains drove sand into the pipes.” 

Later, when the sun was hot in the sky, moisture dripped from the faucet. He heard the Mandalorian climb down the ladder. “Thank you,” he said. 

The Mandalorian said nothing in return but filled the bladders with water. He would sell the water in town and be rich this season. 

On the tenth day, the Mandalorian’s footing became steadier. He tinkered on projects around the farm. 

On the eleventh day, the Mandalorian asked, “What can I do to help you?”

“Find your child.” 

“I will.”

They spent the next day packing a mount for provisions. The Drifter sent the Mandalorian in the direction he had found him, knowing the mount would find his way home. 

The Mandalorian left the Drifter alone in the desert, and the Drifter felt the expanse of the empty sky above him, and was lonelier than he had been in a long time


	3. The Jawa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian finds respite at an Inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter of Mandalorian and the Kid is coming, but this chapter spoke to me next so here you go! I hope you guys like it. Thanks again for all your love and comments and kudos. Wow! It means the world to me.

The Mandalorian and his mount tread across empty sands. 

He had fixed his armor, so the ride under the full suns was manageable. He was careful to manage his mount; stopping for plenty of rest and water. The Drifter had called the creature Dowopee, and so the Mandalorian and Dowopee road in gentle companionship. 

The wind moaned a lonesome howl as they walked. It was spring, and this meant storms. There was an inn about ten parsecs from the Drifter. If they were hasty, they would make it before the afternoon rains. Even now, the distant skies gathered ominously. With each dune they crested, the lone building was visible in the blurry distance. 

It never seemed any closer. 

The Mandalorian thought of the Child. 

He was ashamed he had been ambushed so thoroughly and effectively. It hadn’t mattered that he was outnumbered—he’d been outnumbered before. But the Kid had scampered off in pursuit of a Loth-cat, the Mandalorian in pursuit of him. 

The cat had been a clever ploy. 

Being on the run was exhausting. He felt he’d been on the run his whole life—ever since the droids had killed his family—but this was different. The Mandalorians had rescued him and brought them into his fold, but he was always waiting, sure the imperials would come back to finish the job they’d started. During the Night of a Thousand Tears, they almost had. He’d survived, and with the scars to show it. He had spent weeks in the healing tents. They’d been short on medicine and had resorted to the old ways. 

Many more foundlings had died, and Din had been placed in the triage tent for those who weren’t likely to make it and so was placed in supportive care. As the weeks bore on and he refused to die, he’d been upgraded to the tent for those who likely to survive. As his wounds healed, his hatred for the Imperials and their droids galvanized. 

He would be the best Mandalorian the galaxy had ever heard of. He would not be a victim again. 

He would not allow the Child to be a victim. 

Dowopee plodded forward amicably. 

The blue skies became distant as the afternoon clouds rumbled closer. The inn, he was convinced, was little more than a mirage. With a sigh, the Mandalorian resigned himself to another sodden afternoon. If nothing else, his mount would enjoy the opportunity to cool down. 

It rained. 

That evening, the lights of the inn glowed welcome in the black night. It was still several more hours ride, so the Mandalorian stripped down to his tunic. He put his armor out and worked through his evening routines. Decades of wounds had added up, but a dedicated stretching session helped keep him limber. Otherwise, the cold and the wet could keep him stiff for days. 

He gathered brush and tumbleweed for a fire. It was more smoke than flame, and he considered putting his helmet back on when the winds changed and blew the smoldering fire in his face. 

Above him, the stars were bright and distant. He knew all of them. When he rescued the Child and returned to the _Razor Crest_ , he would teach his son all of the constellations he knew, and more. 

He fell into an exhausted sleep in front of the smoldering fire and woke freezing when it died. He added more debris to the coals and they reluctantly sputtered, giving off more smoke than warmth. This time, with only the black sky and his memories to keep him company, sleep was elusive. 

When the moons were high in the sky and the fire could not be stoked any longer, he climbed heavily onto Dowopee, and urged him onward. His mount had none of his guilt and more energy without heat to wear it down. By morning, they had reached the Inn. 

It was a lonesome building built from sand and clay, which kept the inside cool at the expense of light. A small hooded creature stood behind a desk that doubled as a bar. Bright eyes stared at him.

“Jawa,” Din growled. He had had enough of them after the Sand Fortress and the Mudhorn. And before. He had never cared for the small creatures. 

“Mandalorian,” the Jawa said in crisp common. “You come bearing bias. I suggest you check it at the door. The voice was high pitched in the manner of its people, and his common accent was thick but understandable. “Would you have a drink?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“A man does not ride across the desert without thirst.” The Jawa shrugged. “Rest, perhaps. I have a spare room.”

“I’m looking for a child.”

“I have heard this,” the Jawa nodded. “Very expensive, to the right buyer.”

“He is mine.”

The Jawa chuffed, looking around pointedly. “Then where is he? If he is not here, he is not yours. Saaaa, put away your blaster. I’m an innkeeper, not your enemy. I have not kidnapped your son.”

Slowly, the Mandalorian relaxed his hand around the blaster at his hip. “What do you know?”

The Jawa rubbed the counter with a well-worn cloth. “Your kind is known for lack of manners,” he said. He reached beneath the bar and poured a drink. “This is for me, not you. It’s ridiculous to do a shot through a straw.” He threw back the drink and shivered as the drink rumbled down his small frame. 

The Mandalorian waited. Finally, the Jawa shrugged. “A few weeks past, some marauders came through here bragging about a quarry they’d capture. Figured it was rare and would bring them money if they sold it to the right buyer.”

“Imps?”

“Imperials? Here?” The Jawa threw his head back and laughed loudly. His cowl stayed in placed. When he had stopped laughing, his bright eyes stared out unblinkingly. “What sort of trouble have you brought our planet?”

The Mandalorian stared back.

“I have heard,” the innkeeper said as he poured himself another drink, “that my cousins from a nearby star system hired a Mandalorian recently after scavenging his ship. A fair scavenge. Abandoned wreckage,” the Jawa added quickly as the Mandalorian reached for his blaster again. 

“It wasn’t abandoned.”

“You’re the same Mandalorian.”

Din let his hand fall from his hip as he realized he’d been made. 

“Where is the child?”

This time there were two drinks on the bar. The Jawa pushed the spare drink forward before he threw his back. “What is he to you?”

Din stared down at the drink. “You know I cannot drink this.”

“It is an offering to you as my guest. It would bring a great dishonor upon your people were you to shoot me after being brought into my house in an act of friendship.” 

The Mandalorian considered the amber liquid. 

“Does this mean you are offering me a room free of charge with boarding for my mount, and guidance to the whereabouts of my quarry? As your honored guest, of course.” 

The Jawa froze, staring down at the full glass. Slowly, he pulled it back to his side, and downed it too. 

“My name is Hozz Biik and I offer you all the welcomes of my household.” He set the now empty glass down on the counter. His bright eyes narrowed. “You are cleverer than the rumors had led me to believe.” He poured another pair of shots. 

The Mandalorian smiled beneath his helmet and grabbed the full cup. He raised it in honor. “To Hozz Biik and his generosity. May his stories be known.” 

Reluctantly, Hozz rose his own glass. “It only counts if we toast together.”

The Mandalorian brought the glass beneath his helmet. He had a straw hooked up to his helmet and inserted into the glass. He made a noisy show of draining the amber liquid. He had not had a drink in a long time, and the liquid burned his throat.

“My cousins said you were easily swindled. They are liars. Yes, as my guest, I offer you free boarding for you and your mount.”

“I have never met a Jawa who could speak Common.”

“I have never met a Mandlorian with a son. We are well met.” He poured another set of shots. 

Din settled into a stool, resting his arms on the bar. As the liquor worked through his gut, he felt himself physically relax. “Lonely country.”

“Not lonely enough it seems,” Hozz threw back the glass. “Your son is still planet side.”

The Mandalorian pulled his glass in. Hozz was quick as quick to refill the empty glasses as any gunslinger. “What have you heard?”

“I have heard many things. No, don’t reach for your blaster again. I can see why you were nearly eradicated; you people have no subterfuge.”

The Mandalorian considered the small creature. He had always known Jawas to travel in pods. He had learned enough languages in his travels but had always found Jawanese difficult. They were obstinate in not learning other languages, and masters of trading, so he’d forced himself to learn enough to get by. Hozz was the first lone Jawa he’d ever met, and the only one who degraded himself enough to speak Common. 

“What did you do to get exiled?” 

Hozz froze from where he was pouring another drink. He stared at the amber drink a long time with his glowing eyes. He sat the bottle down heavily before looking up to regard the Mandalorian. 

“I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have, and I gave up everything I knew for her.”

The Mandalorian looked around. It was a sparse and utilitarian place and had none of the careful touches of a woman—the only decoration was a painting behind the bar. Bright blue waters hugged a white shore, a stark contrast to the arid sands outside.

The Jawa followed the Mandalorian’s gaze. He stared at the painting a long. “Her name was Zunwi. Her grave is behind the inn. She was a Duro.”

“Did she paint that?”

“She was a wonderful artist,” Hozz sighed, pulling his gaze from the painting. “She commemorated the place we conceived our child during our travels.”

“Is that Spira?”

The Jawa considered the Mandalorian. “You have been there?”

“I have. What happened to your child?”

“He is buried with her. In exile, I did not have access to the help she needed. An interspecies pregnancy is difficult, even for the inner rim. Here—” The Jawa shrugged. “I am without my wife and my child and my pod.” 

Din drained the liquid through his straw. He leaned forward on the bar. “Help me find my son. He is alone.”

The Jawa looked back at the painting. He was silent a long time. “It was the Sanyassan Marauders.” 

The Mandalorian leaned back. “I heard they never got off Endor.”

“You heard wrong. A couple restored some downed X-wings after the battle. They’ve been trying to make a name for themselves ever since. They’ve got grit, but no common sense. They’re wanting to build a gang to rival that of the Hutts. They think possession of a rare species of child will help them meet their ends.”

“Where are they?”

“They’ve been building a fortress. It’s a five-day ride by mount. Faster, with a land speeder.”

The Mandalorian stood, but the room tilted. He collapsed back to the bar heavily. “What did you put in the drink?”

Hozz chuffed. “Nothing. You’re a lightweight. Rest up. They haven’t found anyone to take them seriously, but the word is getting out. If the wrong person finds out what they have—” Hozz trailed off, looking back at the painting. “I heard what happened on Nevarro. I’ll trade you a speeder for your mount.” 

The Mandalorian leaned against the bar. He nodded. “Deal.”

“Sleep this off,” Hozz motioned to the nearly empty bottle. “You’ve been a better companion than most. The speeder will be ready by the evening. It’s a better time to travel. Your room is first on the right,” he said as he tossed a key over. 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It was a better sleep than any of the others he’d spent on this lonely world, aided no part by the Jawa's strong drink. Hours later, body aching and head still heavy, he wandered downstairs to find a land speeder equipped for travel. It was loaded with provisions, and his pack had been transferred over from Dowopee. 

“What do I owe you?” The Mandalorian reached for his pouch. Hozz waved him off. 

“I told you before: you do not owe me anything.”

“You are a Jawa. Your people never do anything for lack of payment.”

“You want to pay me so that you are not indebted.” Hozz turned to look at him. “I welcomed you into my inn as a guest, not a patron. There is no debt. But if you find yourself wanting, then find your son and bring him home.”

Din nodded. “I would pay respects to your wife and son.” 

Hozz hesitated before giving a slight nod in return. Around the back of the inn stood small, scraggly tree with a moisture generator beside it. Beneath it two stark white smooth stones nestled against one another, one larger than the other. 

“The planet Duro does not have any vegetation to speak of, so Zunwi loved the planets with forests and life. Here, without an oasis,” Hozz motioned to the tree. “I did my best.” 

“To die in childbirth is an honorable death. She rests with her ancestors.”

“Is that what the Mandalorians believe?” The Jawa peered up at him. 

“It is.”

“ _Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum._ ”

“What did you say?” Hozz looked up at him. 

“'I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.' I will remember your family.”

Hozz stared at Din a long time before turning back to the graves. The evening breeze whispered over the stones and through the threadbare branches of the tree. In the south, the moons rose as silver discs. Hozz rubbed his fingers over the well-worn surface of the bigger stone.

They returned to the land speeder. Hozz rubbed the snout of the mount. “Does he have a name?”

“Dowopee.”

Hozz chuffed. “You have met the Drifter. He is not well suited for this planet.”

“Because he is blind, or because he’s a Gungan?” Din climbed into the land speeder, checking the dials as he turned it on. He tapped the fuel gauge, which rested on empty.

“Both. I have never known the Gungans to spend much time away from water. I imagine the sand burns his feet. Don’t worry about the gauge—it’s broken, but I fueled her up and there’s spare in the rear. She’ll go about six parsecs before she needs a refuel. The fortress is ten. I downloaded the map into the computer for you.” 

Din flipped the land speeder into idle and looked up at Hozz. “I owe him a lifedebt. I owe it to you, too.”

“We loners have to stick together. You owe us nothing. I’ll get Dowopee back to him. Save your son.” 

The Mandalorian offered his hand. The Jawa responded in kind, his hand tiny in that of Din’s. “I will.” 

He flipped the land speeder into drive. It sputtered for a moment before edging forward. Soon, the inn was little more than a diminishing light on the horizon as he sped over the lonely dunes.

0o0o0o  
Dowopee is Gungan for “landspeeder” 

When I was active duty, our gas masks had a straw to drink from decontaminated water. I figure the Mandalorians have to have something similar, else they’d all die from dehydration. 

I don’t know if the Mandalorians actually believe if dying in childbirth is honorable, but to a people who have been nearly eradicated as much as they have been, and who rely on orphans and converts to build their numbers, it makes sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick all week. Not the flu, but something pretty persistent. My lovely editor edited this for me last weekend but I've been barely able to drag myself back to work and to the gym (I'd have to be dying before I'd miss the gym) and home and haven't plopped my tired butt down to post this. I've got a Hot Toddy going and because of all the love I've been getting, I don't want to keep you guys hanging. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> As always, much thanks to my editor, RedFieldFamilyFan24. 
> 
> And to you guys


	4. The Desert Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din finds an unexpected friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took some reworking and lots of brainstorming, but here we are.   
> Thanks for your comments and love. They keep me motivated.

Din hid the speeder behind a dune and marked the location on his armor’s internal computer. He didn’t know much about the Sanyassan Marauders—just that they were a band of pirates who had crashed on Endor and been stranded there. He’d met a Sanyassan before and had been unimpressed. The ones he met could barely put a sentence together. If they were negotiating for sale of the Child, it showed a higher level of intelligence than he’d ever witnessed. 

There was still night left. The Sanyassan were not known for their grasp of technology—which is how they’d ended up stranded on Endor and unable to leave--so Din felt relatively secure that they did not have the night vision capabilities to see his approach. Still, they had outsmarted him once, and he approached the fortress carefully. As he edged closer, the heat signature on his viewfinder indicated that the few sentries were slumped behind their posts. ‘

Sanyassans were known for their fighting prowess, but also for their ability to drink heavily and frequently. 

Din edged closer. It didn’t line up. They should never have been able to get the jump on him, much less known the gaps in his armor that had disabled him—had nearly killed him—as quickly as they had. 

The fortress was little more than a haphazard ring of downed ships and what little natural materials could be salvaged. They had not yet completed their ring, so Din made a slow approach to the gap on the south side where a pile of haphazard stones stood in crooked lines. There couldn’t be many fighters, but there were enough to keep him outnumbered. Surprise and sobriety were on his side. 

“Mandalorian.” He heard the click of a blaster behind him as he reached for his own. He had never thought he would hear that voice again. “Keep your hands down. I thought I had killed you before. Looks like I’m not the only sibling to underestimate you.” 

Din scanned the immediate area for cover. There wasn’t much. “Silah.” Ran’s brother. They had been friends, once--Din’s only friend in Ran’s den of thieves. “You would shoot a man in the back?” Din already knew the answer, throwing himself to the side as he turned, blaster firing, the sand beside him sputtering as it absorbed the blasts of Silah’s weapon. He landed on his back, toggling his flame thrower to give him space as he clambered over the closest dune. There was no more incoming fire, and he chanced to glance over the edge. 

A blaster shot nearly caught him in the helmet, catching the top of the dune and throwing sand into the air and he ducked again. The collection of rocks only had one rock large enough to hide a body. 

“It’s been a while,” he called over the small dune. 

“Too long, it would seem. You’ve been making a name for yourself.”

“He tried to kill me,” Din called over the small dune, assessing the distance to the closest ship. It was fifty paces at least. Too far to run. “It was fair.” 

“He was my brother,” Silah said. 

“It wasn’t personal.” 

“This is.”

Din frowned. Ran’s younger brother had been a liability on missions, known for his quick temper and fast draw. He lacked the natural conniving and smooth talking of his older brother, more interested in the rule of gun than conversation. They had been fast friends a long time ago, acting as Ran’s muscle when his politicking ran dry. Din didn’t like a lot of people, but he had like Silah. He’d always worn his feelings openly, and Din had appreciated his candidness. They had spent evenings cleaning their weapons and discussing their future. In those days, Din knew his time with Ran’s gang was temporary, and Silah dreamed of breaking free of his brother’s rules and starting a gang of his own.

“So, you found a posse,” Din tried to buy time. “I thought you were better than Sanyassans.”

“They’re cheap,” Silah called over his rock. “And they’re smarter than people think.”

“Mandalorian,” a craggly voice said from just the other side of the dune. Din raised his arms, glancing over his shoulder to see three Sanyassan’s looming over him. He allowed himself to be hauled up. Silah crossed the distance between them.

“You always said if I learned half my brother’s finesse, I would be unstoppable.” He kept his blaster casually raised, pointed at the Mandalorian’s head. “You weren’t supposed to survive the ambush.” He dropped his blaster from Din’s head to his leg and shot. 

Din crumpled in the arms of his captors as the shot burned into the gap in his armor, just above his thigh plates but beneath the crotch guard. One inch to the left, and it would’ve caught him in the femoral. 

They dragged him into the center of camp before throwing him down around a raging bonfire. Silah waved them off. “I’ve got it from here. Bring the Child.” 

Silah watched them depart before he straddled an overturned rock. “Did you know the New Republic filmed the explosion of my brother’s ship? It’s regulation—to record the destruction of any ship deemed hostile. I would show it to you--but you were there.” 

Din stared up at Silah. He applied pressure to his leg, willing it to stop bleeding. It hadn’t hit anything vital, but he suspected that had been intentional. In the old days, he had cleaned his armor before Silah, and Ran’s brother knew all the gaps. 

It was, he realized, why the ambush had been so successful. 

One of the Sanyassans dropped the Kid off in Silah’s arms. He juggled the child almost affectionately, peering down into his large, unblinking eyes. “It’s said the Imps want it. I never took you for the nurturing type.” 

Din’s left hand was bright with blood, the wound resistant to the pressure. It wasn’t arterial, and the blaster had cauterized most of it. He would survive. He let his hand fall away, shrugging off the grip of the Sanyassans. They let him go at Silah’s nod. 

“Seems we’ve both changed.” 

Silah chuckled. “Seems like.”

The dawn wind swept through the camp. The horizon grew lavender with the rising sun, drowning out the most distant of stars. 

“What are you doing, Silah? You never liked Ran. I have no quarrel with you. Give me my son and I’ll walk away.”

Silah looked down at the child before looking back up at Din. “You’re right. I never cared for him. But he was my only blood in this whole galaxy, and if anyone had the right to kill him, it was me.”

He turned, walking further into the camp. One of the Sanyassan guards pushed Din forward. He shot the creature a glare. 

“I get it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Silah lead them into a downed ship turned headquarters. One of the engines had been blown out, and sand gathered around the gangway. The hinges were beginning to rust. Din climbed inside, the guards posting up at the bottom. Inside, the chairs of the cockpit had been removed, the computers stripped. A small table had taken the place of the captain’s chair, a battered bottle sitting on the rugged, beaten metal. Din took the empty seat across from Silah, the child settled into his lap. Din regarded his son, who looked back at him with wide eyes before looking up at his captor and then back at Din. He had thought the Kid would struggle to be free, but he stayed. Din couldn’t tell if he was waiting for him to act, or if he knew something Din didn’t know. 

“Did you harm him?”

Silah looked hurt. “I’m a pirate, not a slave trader. Why do you think I haven’t turned him over yet?”

“I don’t know, Silah.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Silah played with the dirty glass before him. 

“Still making hooch?” Din finally asked. 

“Still selling it, too.” He poured clear liquid into the glass and held it up, considering the refraction of the rising sun as it distorted the glass before throwing it back and pounding the glass back on the table with a thunk before pouring another. 

They sat in silence a long time, Silah steadily pouring one cup after another. Din looked around the ship—sand had crept into the hold and a glittered in the air, catching in the sunlight. The chair he sat in creaked at every movement, the table wobbled every time Silah poured another glass. He looked outside, and saw the other ships were in similar disrepair. Blast damage indicated battle. The dunes slowly engulfing them indicated time.

“You’re trapped here,” he realized. 

Silah relaxed into the chair, a cup in his hand. He looked out the cracked window. “I had a job go south. He regarded Din. “Turns out, I was a better posse than leader. Was going to see if Ran would have me back. Made a deal with the Cularian syndicate—said if I could get them what they wanted; they’d get me passage off this damn planet. They said a Mandalorian had a bounty they needed. I didn’t know it was you.” He looked down at his lap. The child peered back up at him. “I didn’t know what they wanted. What is he, really?”

“My son.”

Silah frowned. “None of us ended up where we thought we would, huh? You, a father, and me—” Silah waved his hand at the viewfinder with a shrug. “Behold. My empire of sand.”

They sat in silence. Din finally addressed the chasm between them. “Your brother was going to kill me.” He said again, free from the assessing eyes of the Sanyassans. 

Silah stared at Din a long time. He fingered the blaster at his side. Slowly he pulled it from the holster and set it on the table, the barrel pointed towards the cracked window. “Yeah, I believe it.” Silah sighed, changing subjects. “We were friends.” 

“We were,” Din agreed. But he did not recognize the man before him. The Silah he had known was cocksure, handsome with a quick smile that dimpled his cheeks and made him look ten years younger and twice as innocent. He was as charming as he was fast at the gun. The man before him had lines the sagged his face, the strong angle of his shoulders replaced with a slump. The last time Din had seen him, Silah had given him a jaunty salute and a wish of luck. In those days, ambition had paved his future. 

Now all that remained of that ambition were the broken ships outside. 

“Get me off this planet.” Silah pleaded.

“You tried to kill me,” Din pointed out. 

“I didn’t know it was you. I already said that.”

“You shot me.” Din motioned to his leg, but it was Silah that looked wounded. 

“If I hadn’t, we’d both be dead.” He motioned to the gangway and the guards below. "Anyway,” a tentative smile crack Silah’s worn, slightly drunken face, and Din saw the glimmer of the boy he had been. “You’ve always been hard to kill” 

They had both thought they were so old in those days. They were younger than that now. 

“What about them?” Din nodded towards the Sanyassan’s outside. A few of them had started a game of dice in the shadow of a ship. The desert sun had just cleared the horizon but already, heat waves radiated off the sand. 

“If I fail in my mission, they’re instructed to kill me and return to the Cularian’s with my head.” 

“I thought they were your gang.”

“My gang is dead. The Sanyassan’s belong to the Cularians.” 

Din let that settle. He looked back out the broken cockpit window. The stones Silah had used earlier for defense had been out of place in the dunes. He realized now they were markers to Silah’s men. 

Silah had always been confident, but he was also a kinder soul than his brother. Unlike Ran, Silah had thought being a leader meant protecting the posse. It was an argument that had resulted in blows more than once, and after a job with a particularly high body count that Ran had deemed acceptable, Silah had cut ties with his brother and headed out on his own. Ran accused Silah for cutting tail and running over the death of his boyfriend. Silah had shot his brother in the gut in response. As he hastily prepared an escape ship, he’d pleaded with Din to go with him. 

More than once, he wished he had. 

But he could never be what Silah wanted him to be. 

Silah slowly loosened his grip around the Child. The Kid squirmed out of his grip, quickly clambering into Din’s lap. He pulled his son in close, mindful to keep him off his wounded leg. The Child reached for it but Din shoed him away. “Not now.” 

Silah watched them. “What is he, really?” 

“My son,” Din said firmly. “How many Sanyassans are there?” Now that he had his son back, he held him close. Without electricity, the temperature in the cockpit was beginning to become uncomfortably hot. Silah’s face gleaned with a fine layer of sweat, and he stripped his jacket off, leaving muscled arms bare. Din’s auto-cooling kicked on. 

“Too many. Twenty.”

“We’ve faced worse odds before, and I didn’t have Beskar back then.” 

Silah eyed the silver armor. “It’s why my ambush didn’t work. You’ll have to tell me sometime how you got it. Still won’t take your helmet off?”

“Nope.” IG-11 had been a technicality that he owed his life to twice over with a debt he couldn’t repay. 

Silah glanced down at the Kid before looking outside again. “How do you want to go about it?”

“Looks like they’re doing a good job of getting sloshed. We wait.”

“Don’t underestimate them. They’re better drunk than most men are sober. I think they’ve been waiting for me to try something. If they see me come out with you alive, we’re outed.”

“Then don’t let them see me alive. You almost killed me once.”

“Won’t let me live it down, will you?”

“No.” 

Silah cracked an honest smile. “That’s the Mando I remember. So, what’s the plan?”

0o0o0o0o00o

Silah dragged Din down the gangplank. The Sanyassans at the bottom watched them pass without comment, following them as they crossed the hot sands. The group playing dice left the game to gather in a lose circle as Silah dragged the dead weight of the Mandalorian. Silah dropped him in the sand. 

“We are victorious. He is dead. Contact the syndicate.” Before anyone could move, Silah threw out one of Din’s grenade. One of the Sanyassans caught it automatically, his eyes widening in surprise before it exploded, spraying flesh as those closest were caught in the blast flew backwards. 

Din stood up, catching a shot in the breast plate before returning in kind. He heard Silah grunt behind him as fire was exchanged. 

The firefight was brief. Din made short work of the unsuspecting Sanyassans, shooting them at their posts. When the fighting was done, he turned to find Silah laying on the sand, blood seeping from his stomach. He knelt beside him. 

“Told you they were good.” Silah gave him a strained smile. Din held pressure to his stomach, blood swelling up around his hands. Of late, his armor seemed better suited for red. 

“I’ll get the speeder,” Din said. “Don’t die on me.”

When he got back, the Kid was sitting next to Silah. He looked up at Din with black eyes, a slight smile on his wrinkled face before he toppled back, fading into unconsciousness. Silah lay on the hot sand, the wound largely healed. He was still woozy from blood loss as Din loaded first the Child and then Silah into the speeder. 

“Magic,” Silah whispered. “Has to be. It doesn’t exist. But I felt it. I felt him put my guts back together. They were spilling out.” 

Din climbed into the speeder, pulling the sleeping Child in his lap. “He’s like that.” 

“What _is_ he?” Silah leaned forward, a protective arm still around his stomach, as though he couldn’t believe it had stopped bleeding. He pulled at the torn material of his shirt.

Din keyed in the coordinates to Hozz’s inn. “My son,” he repeated. “Get in.”

“Forget about the armor, I want to hear the story about how you got a kid,” Silah settled into the passenger’s seat. 

“They’re sort of related.” Din grinned beneath his helmet. “We’ve got just enough fuel to get back. I’ll tell you all of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sanyassan that landed on Endor were thought to have been killed, as the New Republic found no trace of them. But maybe some of them got off. 
> 
> “They had both thought they were so old in those days, they were younger than that now. “ is inspired by Bob Dylan’s Back Pages. “I was so much older than, I’m younger than that now.” 
> 
> “My empire of sand” is a riff off NIN/Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” The original lyric is “My empire of dirt.” And if you’ve never seen the music video, grab you a box of tissues and go watch it.

**Author's Note:**

> There's more to come, I promise.


End file.
